


Penpal

by sandpapersnowman



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:37:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based off of <a href="http://brokeassbackpack.tumblr.com/post/28030934094/">this post</a>. made into an au that has quickly become something i really adore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mr. Fifield

He’s flicking through page after page of convicts. His coworker had told him he needed a hobby besides baby-talking his plants and petting his Venus Fly Traps, and another coworker (a rather questionable woman, he was glad she wasn’t chosen for their most recent project) had suggested writing to convicts.

So here he is, looking at names and faces in mugshots, almost hoping he finds someone interesting so he won’t be bothered by his mates again.

Almost as soon as he thinks it, he finds someone who catches his eye. A Mr. Fifield, with bright red hair and a ridiculously complicated hairstyle, and with intricate tattoos along the side of his head and something illegible over one eyebrow.

He looks like he’s glaring at him through the screen, and he’s immediately intrigued.

He goes to grab his notebook, but knows that his handwriting is borderline illegible, and instead opens a text document and starts typing.

_Dear Mr. Fifield,_

_Hi, my name is Millburn. A mate of mine insisted that I get a hobby and suggested writing to inmates, so I figured, why not, y’know? Anyway, I saw you in the program and figured I’d give it a shot._

_I’m a biologist, so if I ever start babbling away about it (or anything boring, really), just let me know it bugs you and I’ll stop._

_I think I’m going to type these for your sake, because my handwriting is just really, really bad._

_This is pretty short, but I guess it’ll do for now._

_Write back if you want._

_How are you?_

_Have a nice day,_

_Millburn_

He prints it off, signs his name with a flourish at the bottom, and mails it the next day on the way to work.

For a while, he thinks that this Fifield guy isn’t going to reply, and over the next couple months he contacts a couple other inmates, getting responses ranging from annoyed all the way up to one that had simply said, “Show me your tits or stop writing.”

But one day in the mail, he receives a very official-looking envelope, light gray and with a dark stamp declaring it to be from the county jail.

He figures it’s another convict asking for pornography, or for cigarettes, or something else like that, but when he gets into his apartment and opens it, he feels a ridiculous fluttering in his stomach when the name on the outside is ‘Fifield’.

He unfolds the paper, and the writing is scrawled in thin pen, and barely covers half the page.

_Hey._

_We don’t exactly have computers here, so this is handwritten. Don’t give a shit if you can’t read it._

_So you’re a nerd, huh? Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m a geologist. Except your shit dies, and my shit has been around for billions of years. Suck it._

_Anyway, it kinda sucks here. What’s up with you?_

_Your field of study sucks,_

_Fifield_


	2. Shut up, biology is cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a doodle i don't actually know what i was thinking at the time

His stomach dances in confusing circles, and he finds that instead of feeling offended at the fact that some... Some... _Douchenozzle_ just said dumb ol’ rocks were better than biology, he...

He wants to giggle. What the fuck is going on?

He just about falls over himself trying to get to his laptop, setting the paper down lovingly--no, _carefully_ \--beside his keyboard and opening a new document.

_Fifield,_

_Hah, it sure took your letter a long time to get here! The postal service must not be the best._

_No, I don’t mind the handwritten letters, they’re charming! And yeah, I don’t suppose you_ do _have anything else there..._

He stops writing and thinks for a second. It would be nice to send him something. They could do that, right? They’d just have to screen the package and all that.

_I suppose it’s probably pretty boring in there. Would you mind too much if I sent you... I don’t know. Rocks or something? Anything you’d like from the outside world that I could send you? That’s probably a weird thing to ask, I know, and I’m sure you’ve already got someone sending you things, but I may as well ask. :)_

He wonders if it’s weird that he added a smiley-face, but figures, why not?

_There’s not really much going on with me. I get up, go to work, come home, go to sleep._

_I have brown hair and Italian-frame glasses, and I’m 6-foot-1. Pretty average, minus the height. I tend to seem taller than I am, apparently._

He frowns at his screen. He sounds silly. But then again, what’s he got to lose? If this guy doesn’t feel like replying, there’s no way to make him, so why not?

_So... What about you? All I know is that your name is Fifield, and that your hair is really, really red. And that you’re in jail. And that you used to be a geologist._

_Biology is fucking awesome,_

_Millburn_

Like the first time, he prints it off, signs his name, and puts it into an envelope. He mails it the next morning on his way to work, wondering at the back of his mind if he’s going to take as long to reply this time. He hopes not, and doesn’t know why.

When he receives a reply only two weeks later, he’s close to pissing himself with happiness, and ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling him to calm the fuck down.

_Millburn,_

_Nah, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to reply. You seemed too fucking enthusiastic, but hey, I don’t have much else to do, I guess._

_As long as you don’t send me shit that’ll get me in trouble, feel free. I don’t really have anyone who knows that I’m here, and I’m only going to be here a little longer, anyway. 8 months and counting down the days. It’s a fucking pain in the ass being stuck here._

_Italian frames? Aren’t those the hipster ones? Like... These?_

Millburn smiles at the doodles, and doesn't even mind that he's just been called a 'fucking hipster'.

_Classy as fuck, man. You probably wear them because they look cool, don’t you? And let me guess, you’ve got your hair all swooped to one side like a teeny-bopper in a boy band?_

_So what you’ve told me is that you’re a tree dressed up like a hipster? Honestly, 6’1’’ is pretty goddamn tall, kiddo, don’t know what to tell you._

_Well, I’m only six feet. Before you start asking how the weather is, my dick’s probably twice as big as yours, so can it, kid. Red hair, yeah, tattoos all over my face, yeah, no glasses. Hardcore prison material._

_Unironically a fucking badass,_

_Fifield_

In pencil at the bottom of the page is an added note.

_P.S., if you can get me (Mg,Fe)7Si8O22(OH)2, I’d_ _really_ _appreciate it._

He stares at the paper, confused for a second, before opening his laptop and typing in the chemical composition.

It takes him a second to understand the joke, and how it fits into context, but when he does, he feels his cheeks heat up. But after a couple more moments of stunned silence, he can’t help the quiet laugh that worms its way out of him.

 _That’s fucking brilliant,_ he thinks, and resolves to figure out something even more clever that has to do with biology.

He also wonders if he can call in a favor with one of his buddies at the lab in the geology department and actually _send_ him some.

He hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually i think i had JUST gotten my tablet but that doesn't excuse me i'm so sorry jbkdgf


	3. You Can't Be Serious, Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear there are no more doodles after this one

After some serious convincing on his part that he’s quite proud of, he manages to get a snickering geologist on-campus to give him a chunk of cummingtonite.

This time on the way home, he picks up a small box from the post office, small enough to put the rock in, but big enough for him to wrap the mineral a million times over with a sheet of spongey packaging foam.

_Fifield,_

_There is nothing wrong with a little enthusiasm._

_Eight months, huh? What’d you do, anyway? Since you’re so ‘badass’, I’m guessing... Bank robbery? Murder?_

_And yes, Italian frames. Super hipster, I know. But I paid good money to get some made prescription and with clear frames, so you can shove it if you don’t like it. Cute doodle, by the way. Looks just like me, minus the haircut and scarf._

_I wear them because my grandfather wore them before they were cool, and I always liked wearing them when he let me play with them back when I was a little kid. When I found out I needed glasses, I figured, why not get some like granddad’s?_

_My hair is too long to style like that. And 6-foot-one is_ not _that tall, I am neither a hipster nor a tree._

_I wasn’t going to ask about the weather, and certainly don’t need to know about the size of your dick. And you still haven’t told me much that I didn’t already see from your mugshot and the profile thing they set up. Born in London, huh?_

_Oh, one last thing. Fuck you, victory is mine. I’ve got you cummingtonite. You gonna return the favor? ;)_

_You’re lucky you’re witty,_

_Millburn_

_P.S. Having to go to a good friend of mine, ask for a weird favor, and then blurting out “I’m in need of cummingtonite” in front of most of the geology department? Hope it was worth the lame joke, because there were a few people that didn’t hear the explanation. There are some rumors going around._

He thinks that maybe the innuendo before the post-script might be taken in a weird way, but doesn’t pay it much mind, and puts a crappy drawing of himself on the bottom of the page as a visual. He adds another post-script in sloppy Sharpie.

He stuffs the paper into the box, barely fitting it in alongside the rock wrapped up in foam and taped closed. He really hopes that it’s not against the rules or anything for him to have put it in there; after all, it was too small to seem dangerous, and it was just a little rock. Sure, it was a little bit dense, but not really _that_ hard. (His friend had gone into a whole spiel about it, babbling on and on about its properties, and now he knew that it had a density of 3.35 grams per cubic centimeter, and that it was a 5.5 on the hardness scale. He also remembered having barely held back laughter when he’d heard that cummingtonite ‘leaves a grayish-white streak’, and fondly remembers being kicked out by a perturbed geologist shortly after.)

He hopes that Fifield is good enough of a geologist to really appreciate him having followed through on this, and can hardly stop grinning at work after dropping the package off at the post office.

He gets a reply much sooner than he’d expected, and wonders a little bit if the postal system is what’s taking at least two weeks to get their letters back and forth. His heart skips a beat at the idea of Fifield enjoying replying to him, but that’s ridiculous. He doesn’t really have much else to do, so obviously it’s nice when there’s a change of routine.

He shakes his head clear, plopping down on the couch to read his letter.

_Millburn,_

_Tax evasion. Not really evasion, though. Just kind of forgot about them._

_Your granddad sounds like a cool fucking dude. I mean it, cool glasses like that and letting his grandkid fuck with them like a toy? Guy’s alright in my book._

_Are trees too mainstream? Should I be calling you a swan? (Those bastards have got some stupidly long necks.)_

_You know, kid, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were hitting on me. Even drawing me a picture of yourself, how sweet. What’s next, our initials in hearts? And yeah, born in London, but grew up in Norfolk. What about you?_

_Sorry, this is kind of short,_

_Fifield_

_P.S. Thanks getting my rocks off your friend._

_But are you sure you want that kind of favor from me, kiddo? After all, an experienced old man like me, I might be the best lay you ever had. You’ll spend the rest of your life trying to find better, I’m sure._

All the blood in his body rushes to his face at the post-script, and for a split second, he wonders just how much this Fifield guy is joking.

He also doesn’t miss the grammatical slip-up, which may or may not have been intentional. After all, there’s a huge difference between ‘you will’ and ‘you would’, and Fifield makes it sound more like a promise than a hypothetical joke.

In the back of his mind, he’s almost worried that he’s not more worried, but pushes that thought aside. Besides, this guy is all talk anyway.

...Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry please don't let them influence whether or not you read this jfngvkjghnskbnesrjkbd


	4. "Tell me about your girlfriend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who

He’s too tired at the moment to bother with getting off the couch and getting his laptop, so instead he falls asleep with the letter over his face, blocking out light.

He wakes up a few hours later, and the first thing that comes into focus is the word ‘trees’. He nearly has a heart attack, and quickly sits up. He feels like a moron when he realizes it’s just the letter, and he wonders if he should write back tonight, or wait until after work tomorrow.

 _No_ , he thinks, _I have to do it tonight. Otherwise it might take more than two weeks to get a reply._

Even to himself, it’s slightly unsettling how quickly he’s gotten used to the idea of having a reply from this man every two weeks, but doesn’t let himself worry about it. After all, being penpals with a man in _jail_ was a pretty odd change of pace. _Exciting!_ he rationalizes.

With a groan, he stands up from the couch, heading to the kitchen to grab a soda before plopping down at his desk, where his closed laptop anxiously awaits him.

He opens it and he’s too excited to type in his password; he has to stare at the screen and take deep breaths before he can even try again. Just before he’s locked out, he manages to put it in correctly, and takes a celebratory swig of orange soda while he opens a text document with his other hand.

_Fifield,_

_Why do you keep calling me ‘kid’? I don’t think you’re that much older than me._

_Well. Okay. So maybe by a few years._

_Seventeen years._

_Damn, man. You sure you’re not gonna break a hip jumping for joy that your penpal is writing you back? You want me to send you a cane, pops?_

_Speaking of which, damn right my grandfather was a good man. He passed away when I was thirteen or fourteen. I still miss him sometimes, I guess._

_Don’t call me a swan. Please._

He glances back at the neatly folded paper again to see what to respond to, like he always does, but he can feel his blush creep down his neck.

_And I’m_ _not_ _hitting on you! What the hell makes you think that? So I drew a doodle of myself, big deal. I already know what_ _you_ _look like, I figure it’s only fair. And no, I refuse to draw our initials in hearts. Besides, that’d look strange; MF. It looks like ‘motherfucker’. No. Not happening._

_Southeast London, for me. Wasn’t exactly the best kid, and I left school early, but I became a somewhat respectable biologist. That’s gotta be worth_ _something_.

_What about you? I mean, I know you used to be a geologist, but... What did you_ _do_ _?_

_Damned whippersnapper,_

_Millburn_

_P.S. Very funny. You are hilarious._

He stares at the screen for a second before adding another post-script.

_P.P.S. I’m not even gay. Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man._

He smiles triumphantly to himself, printing it off and signing his name at the bottom like he usually does. He seals it in the envelope and puts it on top of his bag for work, planning on mailing it the next morning, the same as always.

He keeps thinking about those last couple lines, unable to stop focussing on the fact that this guy not only assumed he was gay, but that Millburn was _flirting_ with him, and suggesting he wasn’t experienced, and... And okay, so maybe he’s not _that_ experienced, and despite being pretty much open to trying either gender, he hasn’t actually had _sex_ sex with a guy, like, with the... Anal.

He shuts his eyes tightly and groans internally. Wow, did he actually just _think_ ‘anal’?

This time, it takes three weeks for him to get a reply, and he’s relieved when it arrives; he had been getting kind of worried. He mentally kicks himself in the ass, and writes off his ‘worrying’ as missing writing. Having a penpal. It’s fun, and why _wouldn’t_ he want to write to someone?

And there definitely isn’t a tiny voice in the back of his mind that had been wondering if maybe Fifield just... Didn’t want to reply.

_Millburn,_

_Sorry I took a little longer than usual to write. My new cellmate is a fucking weirdo. Blonde as fuck, says his name is David Eight. What kind of name is Eight? Anyway, I had to watch over him for a week. Miss me?_

_I think I’ve officially earned the right to call you ‘kid’. What are you, then, 29? I kinda feel like I’m robbing the cradle, kiddo._

_In all seriousness, though, I’m sorry your grandfather passed. Everyone has to eventually, and I’m sure he lived a good life. I’m sure he’s very proud of his grandswan._

_‘Motherfucker’. Good call. Wouldn’t want people to think we’re fucking mothers. You might have a bit of a problem with cougars, but God forbid you fuck a mother._

_So, you used to be a rebel, huh? That would explain your sudden interest in talking to convicts. Trying to pick up tips? Miss your old, disobedient ways?_

_The ‘geologist’ thing is pretty much it. Did some contract stuff, went where I was needed. I considered switching my career to something else for a while, but recently I’d been working on these little bot-things. You throw them in cave or a hole of some sort instead of sending a person in, and it collects data for you. Mostly takes readings, now, but in a few more years we might be able to work on mapping routes and such, with a little more funding._

_Then again, give it ten years and we might be able to figure some kind of satellite thing. It would take a while to develop it, though. And now that I think about it, it’d either have to be some kind of modified sonar or some kind of high-transmitting-rate continuous signal. The sonar would probably be better, but the idea of creating a concentrated signal that not only isn’t deafening, and is only in one vertical direction, and can be trusted to bounce back to the unit every time, without fail, is a little too complicated. Plus, it would be_ _really_ _tricky to go beyond vertical caves. There’s a difference between figuring out if the air at the bottom of a hole is poisonous, and maneuvering around a corner to get readings on stalagmites and stalactites._

_The problem with using satellite is that it’s unreliable. If there’s too much dirt between the unit (and its transmitter, which we would have to build in as well) and the receiver, it could lose contact. Then we’d lose the readings, the position, and we’d have to either leave it behind or actually send someone down there to get it. Either way, we’re going to lose part of the expedition crew._

_Holy fuck, I got a little carried away. I kinda miss working on them, and I’m pretty sure the company dropped the project when I went to jail. Goddamn taxes._

_David is probably reading over my shoulder by now,_

_Fifield_

_P.S. I know I’m hilarious._

_P.P.S. Sure, sure. I’m sure you’re completely heterosexual. Tell me about your girlfriend._

Millburn frowns at the end of the letter. He’s a prominent scientist. He had been tall and gangly and nerdy until he filled out sometime in his twenties. Now he comes off as intimidating. Does Fifield _seriously_ think he has a girlfriend?

He blushes. _Oh. That’s the joke._ He doesn’t think it’s all that funny, and makes a mental note to himself to leave a scathing post-post-script about how he could get any chick he wanted. He isn’t the most attractive, but he can be funny and charming when he really tries. He’s just... Busy. With work. And not quite as confident when there are actual human beings in front of him, and not a snarkily-worded letter.

He decides that in a small show of defiance (and willpower), he’s not going to write a reply until tomorrow after work.

He still finds himself doodling caves on every available document the next day, and can’t put his finger on _why_ until the bitch vice-CEO of the company looks at him funny at lunch.

He breaks the accidental eye-contact awkwardly, and realizes he’s been covering a napkin in rectangles and squares and lines; the same patterns of Fifield’s tattoos.

He crumples up the napkin and leaves lunch early, retreating to the research area his team was currently using and getting back to work. Those hybrids won’t record their _own_ data.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're damn right that's who


	5. Fingers Are a Funny Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTE:** There is mention of breaking bones, so if you're squeamish about it, tread carefully.

When he gets home, the side of his hand is covered in ink from the random doodles he had been scrawling in every available margin and the backs of all the papers he came into contact with. Caves, mohawks, entire _labyrinths_ of squares and rectangles. It had gotten worse when he had gotten his hands on a red pen, adding stripes and accents and coloring the mohawks. Laughing nervously, his friend had told him to go home an hour early to clear his head of whatever had him stressed out.

He practically stomps to his laptop, opening it and furiously typing in his password.

_Fifield,_

_Damn you!_ _I can barely think straight anymore! I don’t know what it is, but I couldn’t stop drawing your dumb tattoos and dumb caves (someone asked me why I was drawing assholes. You hear that? You study Mother Nature’s_ _anuses_ _)._

He goes to write another paragraph and stops. _No._ No _, he’ll have no idea what you’re talking about and it doesn’t matter anyway._

With a sigh, he deletes what he’s written, then deletes the document for good measure and opens a new one.

_Fifield,_

_If this gets here a few days later than usual, it’s because when your last letter got here, I was too tired to reply right away. You should get this at about the same time, but still. Sorry for the delay._

He mentally clears his throat.

_Anyway, sorry your new cellmate is a douchebag. No, I didn’t miss you that much. Yes, I’m twenty-nine. You’re not robbing my cradle, there is no cradle and you are not robbing it! Gosh, with the way you’re talking about this, you make it sound like we’re newly boyfriends or something. Have some decency, would you? And yes, my grandfather was a good man, and is no doubt scowling down from Heaven at the pervert harassing me (you)._

_I don’t see the problem with ‘cougars’, and I don’t fuck mothers, and I’m not even going to fuck you, you big, whiny baby. You’re in prison all tattooed and hardcore and you’re acting like I’m some guaranteed ass you’re going to get when you get out. I’m not!_

_I was never a rebel. I just... Had some issues with going to school and being around people._

It took him a long time to type the next paragraph. He had reread what Fifield had said about the unit he had been working on. He’d never seen anyone that he didn’t personally work with go into such detail over something that was obviously so important to him, and it felt really nice in a really strange way that Fifield was being so... _Open._

_That actually sounds incredible. Those bots you’re talking about, that you guys were developing. If it’s fine with you, I’d like to bring it up with our vice-CEO and see if she’s heard of it. Maybe when you get out, we can fund the research and you can come pick up on that where you left off. Just a thought. You seem really passionate about it, and you have some really,_ _really_ _great ideas._

_Punch David in the face?_

_Millburn_

_P.S. I don’t have a girlfriend_ _or_ _a boyfriend, because I’m a very busy man. We’re working on some plant hybrids and things at work, and it takes up a lot of my time. You’re lucky that I even bother with writing you at all._

He thinks the last part might be a little bit mean, but hey, Fifield can handle it. And he’s sure it won’t be taken personally, either.

He still feels a little bad about mailing it a day late, but it won’t make a difference.

He receives the letter after a month, but can immediately tell that there’s something off about it. The flap where the envelope has been closed is perfect and precise, instead of crinkled in multiple places and torn where someone has tried to adjust it.

He flops down onto his couch and opens it, and things just get weirder. The handwriting is neat and pristine; long, thin letters squished neatly together. It almost gives it the illusion of barcode instead of a letter, but he can still read it.

_Millburn,_

_David is writing for me, as much as I hate it. The xxxxxx broke my xxxxxxx fingers, and now I can’t even hold a pencil. He says he’s replacing all the inappropriate words with ‘x’s, so this should look xxxxxxx fantastic, and gives me a great excuse to cuss even more._

_It’s actually really creepy. I’m talking out-loud and this xxxxxxx is able to write everything down in time._

_The only reason he offered to is because it’s been a while, and because he broke my fingers and_ _now_ _he feels bad about it._

_Expect longer pauses between replies for a while._

_Fifield_

Millburn’s eyes are probably about to pop out of his head. Did he really just read that Fifield’s fingers--not finger, _fingers_ \--were broken? And by his cellmate?

He goes to read it over, but this time, he notices some kind of overlap. He flips the piece of paper over and finds a post-script that seems to be written by David himself.

_P.S._

_Hello, Millburn. My name is David Eight. I had been curious about what Fifield might have been dreaming about the night he received your last letter, and was trying to figure it out based on his expressions and nocturnal reactions. He woke up. He says I ‘scared the xxxx’ out of him, but he scared me as well, and I accidentally fractured three of his digits, I’m afraid._

_He’s wearing a cast, for now (he drew attention when he screamed, so he was taken care of quickly). Don’t worry; he should be back to writing you himself in a couple more months when he can properly grasp a pencil. He tried to use his left hand, but even_ _he_ _couldn’t read it. I felt I owed it to both of you to transcribe his letters for him._

_Out of curiosity, what exactly is your relation to him? I assumed you were his brother or other family member, but he said you were unrelated to him. Boyfriend? Husband? Either way, I am glad that you’re keeping in touch with him. He only smiles at your letters when he thinks I’m not looking._

_Goodbye._

He stares at the back of the letter in shock, his mouth hanging open. He’s still appalled that apparently, his weird new cellmate broke his fingers. On his list of mental priorities, denying that he’s Fifield’s boyfriend or husband or whatever is curiously lower than he would have expected, and he finds himself a bit anxious about writing back. Maybe he should just tell him to write him again when he healed, if he wanted, to avoid using David as a go-between. Fifield didn’t seem to be any more comfortable with his new friend than he had been a month ago.

It’s an afterthought to all those previous thoughts that hits him in the face. Two, actually, at the same time; ‘ _Fifield is_ not _my boyfriend_ ’, and ‘ _He smiles at my letters?_ ’ A snide, taunting voice at the back of his mind points out that being happy about the latter thought would most likely contradict the first, but he tries to ignore it as best as he can and wonders just what is wrong with this David guy that has him so calm about breaking Fifield’s fingers, then writing a letter to his boyfriend. His not-boyfriend. Friend? Penpal. Whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ohoho i did it i said the name of the story in the story_


	6. Lying 'n' Waiting

By the time Millburn gets around to writing out a reply, he feels bad about waiting so long. It’s been nearly two weeks, and if Fifield was right about the ridiculous waiting while they checked the letter for anything dangerous or illegal, then that’d mean Fifield would have been waiting a whole month to get a response.

_Fifield,_

_Hey, how are you?_

He accidentally reminds himself for the billionth time that Fifield has three broken fingers. _Three_. He has to stop for a moment and think about that again, because he keeps wondering which ones are broken. He thinks about asking, but then he thinks that’d seem kind of invasive, or rude, or... Something. He rests his head in his hands, groaning in frustration with himself.

God, why is he being so _anal_ about this? Half the reason he’s waited so long to reply is that he doesn’t know what to say, because every time he tries to mentally compose it, he ends up embarrassed at himself and how silly he feels like he sounds.

He erases the two lines he has, then closes his laptop.

He stares at the lid for a second. He sighs, opens it, types in his password, and is again staring down a blank document.

_Fifield,_

_Sorry to hear about your fingers._

He frowns. _Wow, what an intelligent way to start a conversation._ He quickly saves the document to the folder he’s been keeping the rest of his letters in, just in case he needs them for reference, the title being the date and nothing else in the lonely ‘Dumb Penpal’ file on his desktop. It’s a silly way of stalling, but still delays this mess several precious seconds.

Millburn desperately tries to think of something else to say, but still can’t believe that he has three broken fingers. One of the hands that will be holding this letter will have a splint over three fingers, and he knows he’ll probably have to ask David to write Millburn back for him. He wonders if he should even write, knowing how much David bothers him, but figures that he should at least write to _ask_ if he didn’t want him to write much.

Unable to think of anything else to say that _wasn’t_ an inquiry about his fingers, he decided to go ahead and go for it.

_Which ones did you break? And how long do you think they’ll take to heal? Just wondering if you’d rather me not write for a while, so you don’t have to go through David._

He’d really like to have a side note asking David what happened, but somehow that’d be rubbing salt into a wound. Rubbing salt into paper cuts on broken fingers, really. Fifield hadn’t sounded very happy about it.

_I might not be writing as much either; work has been taking up a lot of time lately. Big project. We’re trying to bring more people in, but no luck yet, so we’ve been working ourselves to the bone._

_I guess... Write me back when you can. You can wait until you can write again, I don’t mind. I know how much that guy bugs you._

_Millburn_

_P.S. Please tell David I’m not your boyfriend._

He mails off the letter, and when he returns home the next day, exhausted, he has just enough energy to ease his burning curiosity.

He looks up how long it takes for fingers to heal, and finds that it mostly depends on the kind of break and age. The most common answer seems to be a month or two, and he pouts to himself as he closes his laptop and plugs it back into his charger.

Great. So he might not be hearing from him for a while.

In the morning, when he wakes up, he remembers Fifield had said he was only going to be in jail for another eight months, but that was... Two? Three? Months ago. He tells himself to look at Fifield’s letters and his own, and figures he’ll be able to work out a rough estimate.

Instead of patiently waiting until the end of the day, most of it is spent mentally trying to figure it out in his head. He’s distracted from his work, and frustrated that the wait between letters was so inconsistent. He could have figured it out by now, he’s sure, he thinks as he drives home.

When he finally gets some time to look over the stamped dates on Fifield’s envelopes and the neat, organized numbers in the folder on his desktop, he’s able to work it out relatively quickly.

_It’s been... Three months? Three and a half? Yeah, that sounds about right._

He stares at his keyboard.

 _It seems like it’s been a lot longer,_ he thinks, finger absentmindedly petting the space bar. He sighs, and for a second, entertains the idea of writing letters ahead of time while he waits. He’s sure that there’s no way in hell Fifield is going to go through David any time soon, and Millburn’s already about to boil over with questions he wants to ask.

He goes to sleep early so he won’t be as tired at work, although the day takes its toll anyway. Those few extra hours still give him the spirit to open a new document, which he saved into ‘Dumb Penpal’ as ‘Dumb Questions’.

_What happened with David?_

_What are you going to do when you get out?_

_Are you going back into geology?_

He makes an almost-stupidly-long list, and almost deletes the last one he can think of. He types it out, embarrassed, and his finger slips toward the backspace button. He leaves it, but immediately saves and closes out of the document.

_Are you actually into guys, or do you just REALLY like making me uncomfortable?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _CLIFFHANGER_  
>  unless you're reading this and there's another chapter in which case just go ahead to the next part pff


End file.
